Sheltering Annie: Blueprint to Love, #4

Chapter 1

T hat’s mine!

No, it’s not. I gots him for Christmas.

As dusk settled, Annie McKenna turned the car into the driveway, headlights casting exaggerated shadows on their latest home, a ramshackle two-bedroom rental. This one was gray, a perfect match to her family's mood these days.

"Tommy—please let him have it? Even her voice sounded defeated. Yours is . . . still  packed." Or lost. Or left behind at the last place they'd abandoned. In the old days, she could've run to the store and bought another whatever they happened to be fighting over. But—that took money. Earned at a job. Which had been difficult to do . . . lately. She would be grateful for the day their lives returned to normal—whatever normal turned out to be.

"Jason's is lost," her almost-seven year old insisted. He'd said it so often, she'd started thinking of him that way, too. Almost seven. "My army guy has a blue dot on his neck. He jerked the doll from his brother's hands, eliciting a scream that signaled the start of a full-blown tantrum. Look at his neck!" He flung the doll into the front seat, narrowly missing her head before it clattered on the dashboard.

The fond moment forgotten, Annie fought the urge to weep. For a woman who rarely cried . . . with the exception of that car commercial about your kids growing up and leaving you- Now, she battled each day just to keep herself glued together. Wincing as her youngest son’s shriek reached the decibel level of a mach ten fighter jet, she rethought the growing up and leaving thing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all . . . 

Her sons' arguing grew louder. Lately, it seemed the fighting never stopped. Had it really only been two weeks this time? Tommy? Hey—boys- She struggled to be heard over the yelling. Gather up your backpacks. Jason, don't forget-

Mommy, why is the front door open?

The neglected house stood bathed in her headlights. Breath hitching in her throat, she froze. Not again.

Who painted those words?

Panic forked through her as she hit the door locks and threw the car into reverse. Don't undo your seatbelts. Dragging in a terrified breath, she floored the gas pedal. Over the roaring in her ears, she heard the rough scrape of hedges along her fender when she swerved. Tires squealing, she managed to back out without taking any shrubs with her. The quiet, residential street that had seemed so safe . . . suddenly menacing.

Mommy almost hit the mailbox. Her youngest son's gleeful chortle sounded miles away.

"Mom, what are you doing? We're home. Tommy's quizzical voice penetrated her frozen brain. I'm hungry."

I just remembered . . . Blinking back tears, she dug through her purse, groping for her phone. Keep it together, McKenna. She dialed the emergency number. Aunt Sue . . . invited us for dinner. And to spend the night. Again.   

Aunt Sue?

Safely away from the house, she released a shuddering breath, still watching the driveway in the rearview mirror as it grew smaller. Someone answer the phone.

Sue—is that you? Annie tried to keep the quaver from her voice. It wouldn't take long for the boys to pick up on her fear. It's Annie McKenna. I—we . . . n-need to come in. She waited on hold for the instructions that would provide them safety—for a night. Only two weeks this time. Two weeks, they'd lasted on their own. Each time, Phil seemed to find them sooner than the last. She fought the tears building in her throat, the hot rush of failure that wanted to grab hold and strangle her. Bracing herself, she watched Tommy in the rearview mirror, waiting for her older son to puzzle through it.

His head bolted up. "Wait . . . you mean Aunt Sue—from the shelter?"

Annie confirmed her instructions and plugged them into the GPS. Hopefully, it will only be a few days this time.

Mommy . . . no, he shrieked. I just made f-friends. Her son's voice choked with tears. I don't wanna go b-back there.

Four-year- old Jason watched his brother thrashing against his seatbelt, thankfully still oblivious to his mother’s latest failure. It’s okay, Tommy, he said around his thumb. "We make new friends."

No. Tommy flopped back against the seat, strong, little legs bracing against the back of her seat as he began to kick. No!

Clutching the wheel, hands shaking, her eyes blurred as her oldest began to cry. In that moment, it was hard to imagine their lives being any kind of normal ever again.

"Mommy, they . . . they finally ate l-lunch with me this week. Please . . . don't make me leave."

A FEW DAYS. Annie forced a smile as she slid juice glasses across the counter to the haggard-looking woman facing her in line. Trying not to stare, she wondered how long it would be before she wore that expression. Beaten down. Defeated. Good morning, she said, her voice on autopilot as she addressed the next person in an endless line of hungry people. At seven a.m. the shelter was already jam packed—the start of the breakfast rush hour. 

A few days had turned into a few weeks. Now, she and the boys were residents at New Beginnings, a shelter that specialized in domestic abuse victims. At least there, she wouldn't have to search for a new place to stay each night. There, they allowed her to stay with her boys. In a tiny room above the homeless shelter dining hall. They were safe, in a building protected by bars and locks. But, none of the women living there felt safe. Annie had seen the knowing in their eyes—likely reflected in her own. Safe—until their abusers found them again. 

Her mouth quirked in a half smile as she glanced across the crowded dining hall. New Beginnings even had its own security guard, a giant named Big Pete. Annie's nursing training—growing rusty after months without a job—suggested Pete suffered from PTSD. The former marine had served four tours in the Gulf before returning home for good. Now, he spent his days on vigilant duty, protecting the women who lived at New Beginnings.

May I have a refill, ma'am?

Startled, Annie pulled her gaze back from Pete. I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. She turned to the coffee station to retrieve a cup.

I have my own, ma'am. If you don't mind. The drawl was faint, a memory from a place he hadn't been in a long while. He handed her a battered, metal thermos. If you can refill this, I'll be good to go.

We're not supposed to fill outside containers. Annie glanced to the kitchen doors behind her, still swinging from the last cook who'd blasted through them to reload the service line before a food tray depleted. She swung her gaze back to the waiting man. For the first time, she took notice of his features. Warm, blue eyes smiled back at her. She shot another glance to the kitchen. Give it to me quick.

His smile broadened, revealing a flash of startling white in a tanned, weathered face. I don't want to get you in trouble with the kitchen police.

To her surprise, Annie felt her own smile lift. It's no trouble. In a crowd of hungry, tired, beaten-up-by-life people, this man was different. He was such a pleasant distraction, she couldn't help enjoying the moment. That—and his elusive scent. It wasn't often she smelled someone delicious standing in her line. Sunscreen, mint and an addictive woodsy cologne. Whoever he was, he was stunningly handsome.

He shot a glance over her shoulder and handed her his thermos. Okay . . . the coast is clear.

Smiling as she filled the tall thermos from one of the eight pots behind her, Annie was conscious of his gaze on her. Cream and sugar? She didn't want to analyze why she was offering to do it for him . . . when the milk and sugar were out in the dining area for everyone to mix their own. Nor her sudden impulse to prolong the transaction.

Yes, please. Splash of cream. Two sugars.

When she handed him the thermos, he nodded his thanks. You have a good day, ma'am. Tomorrow, I'll leave my thermos in the truck. He winked at her. I don’t want you breaking any rules on my account.

Tomorrow? For reasons she didn't dare examine . . . Annie wanted to spend another minute . . . or ten with Gorgeous Coffee Guy. Kind, handsome—and articulating full sentences in a polite manner. But, a swell of diners was beginning to stack up the line—some more belligerent than others. As the rude comments started further down the line, her face heated. She knew better than to take the raucous remarks personally. New Beginnings attracted all kinds. The gentle, down-on-their-luck types, the drunks and addicts who'd rather have money for their poison of choice than the nutritious food they served; and the off-their-meds men and women clinging to their reality by a fraying thread.

Gorgeous Coffee Guy stiffened, flashing her an apologetic glance before he stepped out of line, heading in the direction of the insults. Guys—I don't want to hear that kind of talk around these ladies. They're working hard to serve you a nice meal. Let's all just wait our turn.

Everyone stilled, an electric current jolting through the line. Before her eyes, coffee guy morphed from easygoing to red-alert as he studied the crowd, waiting to see whether there’d be fallout from his words. Annie waited too, biting her lip. Most of the time, it was bluster. Complainers weren't looking to make real trouble, because they couldn't afford the risk of being banned. The people in her line were hungry. But, hard times—poverty . . . hunger had a way of making a person feel powerless. Sometimes, it just made you feel mean. 

Seeming to possess a sixth sense, the tall, handsome stranger scanned several faces before returning to retrieve his thermos. Confused thoughts ricocheting through her brain, Annie dropped her gaze when he approached. It's okay. They don't mean anything by it.

Politeness doesn’t cost us anything, he answered, staring at her for an extra second. No matter our circumstances—we always have that.

You're right. She nodded, feeling humbled and proud at the same moment. Thank you. Annie slid his thermos across the stainless counter. She didn't even know his name, but in only two minutes, he'd somehow managed to make her feel a little better about herself. You have a good day.

You, too. He tilted his head toward her. See you tomorrow.

His words sent a strange, secret thrill trailing down her spine. Suddenly, instead of dreading it, tomorrow was something she would look forward to.  

"SUGAR, YOU got to be talkin’ about Hank Freeman." Sharon Carter’s voice raised an octave as New Beginnings' director puzzled through Annie's question a week later.

Keep it down. Annie scanned the nearly empty dining room, her face heating as she questioned the sanity of quizzing Sharon for information on Gorgeous Coffee Guy. She was suddenly second-guessing the desire for a quick coffee break with Sharon and Marisol Ortega, the center's fundraising coordinator. But, friendship was something she no longer took for granted after two years on the run. 

The timing fits. Sharon's mocha eyes studied her. He started last week. He works with Stud Muffin.

She shot a glance at Marisol. Who?

Mari rolled her eyes. She's referring to Jeff Traynor—from Specialty Construction?

Ah. Annie nodded. She'd seen him wandering around with Mari. The exceptionally handsome builder who'd taken an immediate interest in beautiful Marisol—who, thus far, was resisting him. "He is very attractive." 

"And he knows it."

Sharon's eyebrows raised in a question mark. Let's get back to you, Sugar. Hank Freeman is the superintendent. He'll be on site to supervise the construction. Her expression turned thoughtful. "He'll be here for the next seven or eight months. Plenty of time for you two to get better acquainted."  

Her face burning up, Annie wished she’d resisted her impulse. The flare of interest in the older woman’s eyes was unmistakable. Hopefully . . . I'll be long gone by then. Glancing at Mari, she rose from the table. I need to get back to work. Better to escape before-

Hold on there. Sharon’s bracelets jangled when she snagged her wrist. Mari and I need to hear all about you and Mr. Hank. New Beginnings’ director was clearly on the scent.

There is no 'me and Mr. Hank'. She read relief in Marisol’s gaze as the conversation finally shifted from her—and why she wasn’t dating the hot, young owner of the construction company who was building New Beginnings' massive addition. Instead, Annie had allowed her wild curiosity about Gorgeous Coffee Guy to overrun her good sense. But, the sexy man she looked forward to flirting with each morning had taken over her frontal lobe. Their seven a.m. coffee ritual had become the absolute best few minutes of her day.

He’s got a little seasoning to him. Sharon's smile widened. And I suspect there’s a dash of Cajun heat under that laidback surface.

Oh my Lord. Her face was likely incinerating. Marisol’s burst of laughter didn’t exactly help. Gaze locked on Sharon’s surprisingly strong hand still clamped around her wrist, Annie found her voice. I have tables to set. The damnedest part was that she’d brought it on herself. Unable to resist the crazy impulse to learn more about Coffee Guy, she’d asked the question . . . despite knowing if she showed interest, Sharon would swivel the interrogation strobe her direction.  

He’s available. Sharon threw out the perfect, golden nugget with an air of expectancy—as though certain Annie would be unable to resist. Rich, chocolate eyes smug with certainty, Sharon waited several beats for her to collapse like a house of cards. Don't do it, McKenna.

"I . . . that doesn’t—I have zero interest in . . . you know, she choked out. Flirty banter over coffee was the closest thing to a relationship she'd had in nearly three years. That part of her life had shriveled up. A dusty, cobwebbed corner she didn't venture near. One that didn't need cleaning. A shadowy corner that needed to be sealed shut—so the scurrying memories could finally suffocate like trapped rodents. He’s just nice . . . that’s all. She swallowed around the sudden dryness in her throat. Very friendly." With beautiful eyes that seemed to read her thoughts. 

Friendly? Sharon grinned.

Polite, she clarified. In her world, polite was quite possibly the sexiest thing about him. Except maybe—his smile. The one that made her tingle. Or—his hands. Annie swallowed a groan, suddenly flushing with heat. Coffee Guy had the sexiest hands she’d ever seen. They were rough. Callused. Strong and tanned from working in the sun. And they made her shiver when his fingers grazed hers each morning. But—that was all. Because the rest of her parts were . . . rusted. And she was absolutely, positively fine with that. Perspiration gathering at the small of her back, she shot a helpless glance to Marisol. 

Is he divorced? Despite her youth, Mari intercepted her pleading vibe and asked the question for her. The sweet bonds of sisterhood to the rescue. Perhaps, she’d manage to extract herself from the conversation with her dignity intact. 

He’s a widower. Sharon finally relented, apparently wanting to spill the information more than she needed to tease Annie. This time. His wife passed on four years ago.

Sadness lanced, surprising her with its sharpness. Pain for his loss—instead of happiness that he might be available. No one should experience such a devastating loss. That’s terrible. But it made sense in a way. Coffee guy . . . Hank was too thoughtful— if there was such a thing.

Bemused by the trail of her thoughts, Annie lowered back into her seat, glancing at them. I don’t think I’m surprised by that.

Marisol’s curious expression was the opposite of Sharon’s knowing gaze. What do you mean?

He’s . . . different. Easygoing, but not a charmer. Familiar with being around a woman, yet cautious. Respectful. He’s . . . sort of out of his element. Rusty. With flirting . . . and probably everything else. Like her. Making him even more appealing. 

Jeff said since his wife died, he pretty much keeps to himself. He lives on a farm somewhere.

A farm? Marisol raised a brow. How far out does he live?

About fifteen miles or so. He ain't milkin' cows, Sugar. It's more like acreage. Sharon settled in for what could potentially be a lengthy discussion. Growin' vegetables and stuff like that. Probably got a slobberin' dog or two. Her expressive face scrunched with distaste. Me? I'm a city girl. I gotta know that when I turn on the TV, my shows are gonna be there. I gotta have my cable. She shrugged massive shoulders. But, I can respect someone who likes to rely on himself. We see too little of that around here.

Intrigued, Annie stayed quiet. She'd already raised enough suspicion. From the little she knew of Hank, she agreed with Sharon's impression. A loner—but in a comfortable way. Quiet. Capable. Confident about who he was. A simple, self-sufficient life would likely appeal to him. She could envision him plopped on ten acres somewhere . . . unconcerned if the power went out. Probably able to handle any issue that could arise. Fix anything that broke down. How appealing would that be? Being with someone who could do . . . just about anything? Unable to suppress her smile, Annie acknowledged that everything she'd just imagined was pure fantasy. She knew nothing about Hank Freeman—except what she'd seen with her eyes. And her gullible eyes had deceived her before.

Jeff actually warned me Hank might come across as cranky- Sharon's eyes lit with surprise. "But, I sure haven’t seen evidence of that yet."

Marisol smothered her laughter. That’s because Jeff is running interference on all the color selections. He said Hank would blow his stack if he had to meet with your committee every week.

Sharon harrumphed as though the very idea they could be viewed as difficult was beyond imagination. You took forty-five minutes yesterday, Mari reminded, just to pick out the tile in the women's dormitory bathroom.

Bracelets jangled as the older woman flailed her arms. These are big decisions. It's not as though we're drownin' in money here, she reminded. "We have to live with those choices for a very long time."

What about the carpet in the conference room? Annie reminded. "I was able to set the entire dining room that day . . . in the hour it took you and the board ladies to select a pattern."

Her expression was priceless as she tried to defend herself. Annie would have sworn Sharon’s cocoa skin was blushing dusky pink. Let me just tell y'all it’s much harder than it looks.

You only had three samples to choose from. She was still smiling when she left them a few minutes later. Despite their circumstances—her little family wedged into the tiny room above the dining room . . . Tommy still unhappy over another new school, yet settling in with the resilience known only to almost seven-year-olds. Peacekeeper Jason, simply going with the flow. They could be worse off. New Beginnings had become a safe haven. Phil hadn’t found them yet. When he finally did, she would hopefully be stronger for their inevitable confrontation. Calmer in how she dealt with his rage. Determined, when her courage would likely want to nosedive all over again.

At New Beginnings, she had meaningful volunteer work that kept her mind off the nursing career she’d been forced to place on hold. Phil’s relentless pursuit of them left her unable to hold a job. His erratic behavior . . . threatening her—threatening the boys. Employers weren't exactly sympathetic to the new hire whose personal life spilled over at work. She could never gain her footing before he'd show up—making a public spectacle. Instead of professional respect for her patient care, she received commiseration. Anxious, knowing looks from supervisors that told her they were concerned—for their business. For their patients and staff who could possibly be caught in the shit storm Phil usually wrought. She'd lost three jobs in the last two years. Until their lives settled down, Annie had suspended her job search, not wanting to burn any more bridges with employers who would surely remember the woman with the volatile ex-husband.

Releasing a steadying breath, Annie pushed the bad memories aside. Until she determined her next move, she could still take pride in serving those who were less fortunate. Instead of cowering . . . waiting for Phil’s next move, she could be proactive in helping others, instead of always worrying about herself. New Beginnings was temporary. A place to regroup. But, soon . . . she had decisions to make.

Increasingly, she experienced flashes of happiness. The women she’d met were strong. Mostly kind. Making the best of their stressful situations. As she’d slowly opened up—both in group therapy and with her new friends, Annie had enjoyed getting to know Marisol. The young woman reminded her of herself . . . back when her life had been full of promise. And she loved talking with Sharon Carter, despite her teasing. The older woman had seen just about everything humanity had to offer. Thirty years running a homeless shelter and soup kitchen would do that to a person. Yet, Sharon’s faith in humanity never seemed to waver, her sage advice doled out with a smile.

And now she had Hank. Or at least . . . the idea of him. Annie knew better than to dream. But, she wasn’t above the occasional wish. The appreciation of a fine man cost her nothing. Her back to the ladies at the table, she released a satisfied sigh and strolled to the kitchen. Who knew? Maybe one day, if she were ever ready to try again, she could search for a man like Hank.

IT WAS THE LITTLE THINGS, Henry Freeman acknowledged as he and Bo took their nightly stroll. Walking the fields, checking fences, his gaze studiously avoiding the garden that still needed turning over. Even on a gentleman's farm, there was always an endless list of chores. Tonight, his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t see Bo, tail wagging, as he waited for him to remember the throwing stick he held in his hand. Not pausing in the usual places, Hank strode on, destination unclear, his legs just seeming to know he needed to keep moving. Forward. Finally.

Pausing in the clearing where Gayle had always sidetracked on their walks, he viewed it from his wife's perspective. An opening in the tall sycamores provided the perfect stargazing spot. The beckoning patch of wild crocus would have lured her, a spatter of yellow and purple paint on the still wintered ground under the trees. Hank stopped, reaching back for her hand. And froze. Bewildered for a moment until he remembered. She’s gone, you idiot.

Yes, it was little things he missed most. Habits developed over a lifetime together. Meaningless to most people, but agonizing to the one left behind. Reaching for her hand. A reflex so small. So natural. One he still couldn’t break himself of. The pressure of warm fingers entwined with his. The ever present ache when he remembered it was gone. Like the soreness of a paper cut. Forgotten until you brushed against something and felt the sting all over again.

For the first two years, Hank had reached for her hand almost every night. Every meandering hike to their stargazing spot. Knowing she wasn’t there, yet somehow—for an instant . . . able to forget the terrible truth. But, the hand he’d held for nineteen years just wasn’t there anymore. 

His old Lab left him, loping a few paces ahead to sniff out the scents dancing on the breeze. Squirrel . . . rabbit. Hell, sometimes he swore it was simply the joy of a new spring that Bo celebrated, nose down, the occasional ecstatic bark urging, ‘C’mon. Come see what I found’. Returning every few minutes to make sure Hank was still where he’d left him. 

Tonight, Hank wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. Trudging up the hill after Bo, his ribs jabbed with a sharp twinge of guilt—an acknowledgment that it might actually be possible to experience happiness again. Would Gayle mind? His breath coming in short gasps that had nothing to do with the hike, he inhaled the cool, night air. Relief drizzled through him—because maybe his life was finally changing. At the same time, there was pain. His life—was finally changing. 

Hell, he knew Gayle wanted him to move on. To not get stuck. She'd said so . . . in the months after learning she was sick. In the days leading to her death, she’d exacted his promise. Be happy, Henry. Swear to me you'll be happy. 

For four years, he'd believed in his soul . . . happiness wasn't possible. The best he'd hoped for was relief—from the haunting ache inside. The gaping, yawning chasm where the meteor had crashed down. Where his verdant, green life full of promise had incinerated. But, each day, another spear of grass grew over the charred remains. Each week. Each year. Until all that remained was a gently sloping reminder of what he'd had. And lost. 

Be happy, Henry. Gayle had repeated the mantra, especially toward the end. But, when it came down to it, would she have wanted him to find someone else? Tipping his head back, he awaited the gloaming. Bo returned to his side, flopping at his feet, content to rest for a moment. Over the next several minutes, night crept over the sky, softening from pink to violet to dusky plum. Deepening until the stars revealed themselves, hidden in plain sight.

That morning, he'd awakened to the sense of something different. Dawn trickled in, same as usual. But, the patterns of light had shifted. Shower. Coffee. Feed Bo. The same tasks he'd performed every day for as long as he could remember. But, this morning—the dull ache that had resided in his chest for the last four years, two months and nine days . . . had disappeared. It had taken Hank a goodly while to figure out what was missing. Before realizing the pain had gone—slipping away when he hadn't been paying attention.

I don't feel great, mind you, he'd said to Bo before leaving the house. But, I don't feel bad. Hank's perception of the day had changed. Instead of something to get through . . . another day notched as an 'after Gayle' day— it felt more like a maybe-something-good-could-happen day.

Maybe that's why he'd done something completely out of context with the life he’d led since Gayle. He’d smiled at a woman. Not the distracted smile you flashed when holding the door for someone. But a full-on, it's-great-to-be-alive kind of smile.

Her name is Annie. Bo barked an acknowledgment, nose to the air as he caught an enticing scent. Annie McKenna. That morning, he'd entered the construction zone like any other Tuesday. Met with his foreman. Breathed in the smell of freshly excavated dirt. Hustled inside before he was late for the early project meeting. Girded his loins—for the same meeting—with the passionate, stubborn, pain-in-the-ass gaggle of women he was dealing with on the New Beginnings project. No expectations except coffee . . . and maybe a cinnamon donut from the shelter kitchen. 

Just like every day, he'd smiled at the shy, pretty blonde who worked the cafeteria line. A tireless volunteer whose smile sometimes didn't reach sober, brown eyes. But today, she'd hesitantly returned his smile. Today, her eyes had glowed with a brief flash of happiness. And Hank had been blindsided. By a hot burst of yearning he’d truly believed he'd buried with Gayle. Now, he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Honey, what do you think? His rusty voice drifted away on the cool, spring night. Give me a sign, Gayle Marie. As though he understood, Bo lifted his head, his whimper sounding like 'huh?'.

Part of him would always mourn the loss of his old life. Strange as it seemed, Hank would even miss the awkward half-life he’d been trapped in since his wife’s death. It had become comfortable. Constant. A single, familiar marker in the vast sea of 'after Gayle' unknowns. His boat had been stuck in neutral, with only the nudging waves to jostle him forward in time. Safely moored in a harbor of loneliness that hadn’t felt good, but had absolutely felt right.

A sudden breeze wove through the trees, breaking the stillness. When pinecones rained down, Hank startled, turning his face to the wind. Knowing Gayle, she was chucking them at him. You always had a good arm, babe. Ducking when one glanced off his shoulder, he raised his hands in protest. "Hon, that was a compliment—not a challenge. His mouth lifted in a smile as he experienced a thrill of hope. So, you're sayin' it's okay, then?" Had he finally reached the other